


Still Great

by megster



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:14:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megster/pseuds/megster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darcy has always known it could happen eventually.</p><p>Trouble is, she never stopped to consider that it actually would.</p><p>This is Darcy, and this is death, and this is not supposed to happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Great

**Author's Note:**

> . . . This is a deathfic! So if that is not your cup of tea, maybe skip this one, because it is obviously not part of the timeline of my FurtherAdventures!Verse.

She supposes it was foolish of her, to think that death couldn’t-- _wouldn’t_ touch them.

She had to cling to it, though, because the alternative was to look head-on at the fact that any one of them could die at any moment of any battle, and she is many things, but she is not strong enough to deal with that fact.

It is her fault, she knows, for loving each of them, her fault for looking at them and seeing family. Her fault for slipping into their lives, their crazy, alien-fighting, Doombot-defeating, _dangerous_ lives.

It was-- _is_ \-- a good life. She has seen remarkable things and met remarkable people and been privy to remarkable events.

(She is paying for it now, in full, and right now, she is not sure that it is worth it.)

She closes her eyes, briefly, then opens them, because he is branded on the inside of her eyelids. His quick smile and sharp eyes and clever hands.

It is just her brand of misfortune that she was listening in on the comm line when he died.

His last words were, _For fuck’s sake, guys, keep it together. Don’t embarrass me, and oh, tell Pepper I’m sorry and J.A.R.V.I.S., don’t you dare check out on them because you’re my fucking legacy and Phil don’t let S.H.I.E.L.D. near my personal shit_. _Steve, this isn’t your fault this is my fucking decision let me at least make this choice for myself and hey, maybe I’ll get lucky I’ve gotten lucky before but if not I really am sorry but this is the best way--_

And then he had been cut off and there was a terrible crackling noise over the comm line and then Thor had hurled Mjolnir in one last ditch attempt and Steve had--

No. 

No good replaying it in her mind.

At least he had died the way he wanted to.

With a fucking bang.

(Make no mistake, he knew he was going to die, because for all the times Tony Stark had cheated sure death, he had never detonated his own power source before.)

Natasha had told her that there was a blinding flash, followed by a truly magnificent explosion.

How very like a Stark.

As brilliant in death as in life.

There is no body. In a twist of divine cruelty, the casing of the arc reactor is the only fucking thing that survives the blast. The rest of the suit, and his body, had disintegrated in the explosion of pure energy.

She hasn’t cried yet. It’s silly of her, and pointless, but she feels that if she cries, there’s no going back.

(There’s no going back anyway. It’s nice to pretend, though.)

When Steve sits down next to her (on _his_ couch, in _his_ workshop), she keeps her eyes on her hands. She can’t bear to look at Steve, or any of them, because it’s just too hard to see her own grief reflected in their faces, their bodies. 

(She made the mistake, earlier, of looking to Natasha, and it had been the most frightening thing she had ever seen; a dry-eyed Natasha with her lips pressed together, an aching sadness and burning anger coiled in the way that she sat, head held high.)

She cannot look at Steve.

He says nothing, just sits next to her silently. 

Finally, seeking comfort and half-hoping to offer some, she burrows herself into Steve’s side.

His shoulders are shaking, gently, and she does look up, then, and sees that he is racked with silent tears.

She is right.

It does not help to see that he shares her grief. But his tears allow her to cry, and she does, finally, and it feels _final_.

She hates it. 

This should not be happening.

A world without Tony Stark should not go on turning.

(A world without Tony Stark may as well not be a world at all.)

When Dummy rolls over and nudges her, concerned, with his arm, she loses it. 

She springs to her feet, chokes out, “Dummy, J.A.R.V.I.S., I am _so_ sorry,” and bolts out of the workshop.

J.A.R.V.I.S., who had obeyed his creator’s wishes to the last. J.A.R.V.I.S., who had allowed Tony to turn himself into a human bomb.

J.A.R.V.I.S. has not said a single word to any of them since--well. 

She wonders, dully, what it must feel like to lose your creator. 

She isn’t sure if J.A.R.V.I.S. can feel pain like this. She sort of hopes that he can’t, but at the same time, she hopes that he can.

Tony is worth that.

She intends to go to her room, but halfway there she simply can’t, because _Tony is dead and nothing is the same and why hasn’t time stopped yet how can people go on with their lives when Tony Stark, the great Tony fucking Stark is dead and_ ** _this can’t be happening_.**

But it is.

It is happening, it _has_ happened, and the world is still turning.

She supposes that she had better pull herself together.

*          *          *

When a hero dies, his friends and family are flooded with condolences.

It’s sickening.

Darcy half gets her wish, because while the world does not stop turning, it _is_ shocked that the invincible Iron Man is dead.

By his own hand, technically. 

Undefeated, technically.

She clings to that truth with tenacity, because he deserves that distinction: That he could have survived, could have chosen to live and fight another day, but instead chose to destroy Thanos and the Gauntlet and himself with it.

She hasn’t decided yet whether it was a selfless choice or a selfish one.

She thinks it’s maybe one of those things she’ll never be able to determine.

The Fantastic Four swing by the tower.

Ben Grimm is stoic, and says little. But there is true regret in his eyes. Sue holds herself together, though her eyes are red, and Darcy hates her, because her family is still intact. Johnny is quiet and subdued, and that is awful. She wishes that he would just crack some crude jokes already. 

(Tony had been rather fond of Johnny.)

Reed Richards almost makes it out of the building without being punched, almost being the operative word.

It has been going well, really, and then he says something about it being a shame, the Gauntlet being destroyed, because he really could have done some _amazing_ research with it, and then Clint strides forward, steel in his eyes, and decks Reed in the jaw.

It really says something, Darcy thinks dully, that Phil doesn’t even try to stop him.

The next few days, emails and phone calls and texts and letters come in from all around the world.

(There are even condolences from some supervillains--it’s honestly a little surreal to get flowers and a card from Magneto, but Darcy supposes that he _is_ one of the more polite villains.)

*          *          *

She almost doesn’t go to the funeral, because she truly thinks that her heart can’t take it.

But the rest of the team _has_ to go, and when Bruce stands at her door with a terrible, fragile look in his eyes, she can’t refuse.

She sits between Bruce and Pepper.

Pepper has been crying. She says, so softly that Darcy isn’t sure that she is even aware that she’s speaking aloud, “I knew this would happen. That bastard. Couldn’t let someone else take the fall.”

Steve hears her, of course, and leans across Bruce and Darcy to say, “Of course not. It’s part of what makes him great.”

“Made,” Pepper says, softly. “Made him great.”

“No,” Steve says firmly, and he sounds more like himself than he has in a week. “No, he’s still great. Just because he’s gone doesn’t mean he stops being one of the best men I know. Being dead doesn’t change that. Never will.”

And Darcy, who has been managing to restrict herself to a few polite tears, can’t help herself anymore, and cries in earnest.

The service passes in a blur.

People speak, tell stories.

It is solemn and heavy and _sad_.

Tony would have hated it.

In the end, Rhodey comes through.

Rhodey always comes through, probably always will.

He goes up to speak, takes a look around.

Then he says, “This is fucking ridiculous. Tony Stark is my best friend and a great man and I am not about to let us mourn his death like this. Mourning is good,” Rhodey says, and his voice is tight. Darcy wants to give him a hug. “Grief is healthy, and all that. But you know, what we really should do is celebrate the life of the greatest mind and spirit that the world has ever fucking seen.”

Darcy smiles for the first time since _it_ happened.

She dimly listens to the rest of Rhodey’s speech.

She goes with the team back to the Tower, and gets good and drunk.

When she closes her eyes, he is still burned into her mind. Tony Stark, with his quick smile and sharp eyes and clever hands. Tony Stark, and his brilliant, brilliant mind and his self deprecation and caustic tongue. Tony Stark, the man both with and without a heart. Tony Stark, Iron Man. Tony Stark, Avenger.

And, Darcy thinks, the world beginning to be a little fuzzy ‘round the edges, Tony Stark, friend.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, I really am, but I was depressed and finals and Michael Young got traded to the Phillies and a kid I went to high school with passed away and it's sort of been a crappy weekend.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed (?) the fic. My WIP will be updated hopefully by the ended of the week.
> 
> (And for the record, I adore Tony, Tony is and always will be my favorite superhero (in the MCU and the comics and the lovely animated EMH series) and I'm very sorry I killed him, but sometimes you just need a good cry.)


End file.
